When Midnight's hour has long since struck
by Michael Morris
But Sleep won't come because our mind
Still frets and worries, then a book,
Of all Life's pleasures, is the kind
To carry us away from care.
And place us in some jungle wild
Or frozen waste, or in the air
To fly, like that dear magic child.
Whom once we envied when our hearts
Still felt that crocodiles might tick,
And pasteboard queens bake apple tarts
And pigs build houses made of brick
And Ratty on the river sailed,
And Mole spring cleaned his little den
And magic potions never failed
To bring us down to size again.
Ah well, perhaps all dreams must change
And adults think of adult things
But surely still our minds can range
Past cabbages to think of Kings?
And all those wonders that we knew
Are waiting for us out of sight,
Where grass is green and skies are blue
And books will help our thoughts take flight.